


Once Upon a Headline

by dieofthatroar



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Aces vs. Falconers, At least after year 3, Bipolar Disorder, Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Some talk of hockey violence and injuries, Stanley Cup, there's a lot of hockey in this one folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 20:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15032156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dieofthatroar/pseuds/dieofthatroar
Summary: "Kent Parson is back from injury but have we seen his focus return?""We haven't seen anything from him in the postseason. Just mistake after mistake.""Parson isn't ready to lead his team to the win."It's the Stanley Cup Finals and Kent isn't ready.--For the prompt: Falconers vs Aces in the Stanley Cup Final. Kent misses a game in the series. Suspended, scratched, injured, ~mysteriously absent~ is up to you





	Once Upon a Headline

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotatoCat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatoCat/gifts).



_“Parson had some great plays in critical games in January and February, but we haven’t been seeing his best hockey in the postseason.”_

_“I’d say not since the injury in March. We hear he’s also still not 100% from his surgery in the fall.”_

_“Should he have taken more time to recover?”_

_“No, no. See, Terry, it’s the discipline that we haven’t seen since he’s been back leading his team. He hasn’t had the focus to move the puck when he needs to and hasn’t gotten a point in the last three games. It isn’t a knee or a shoulder, that’s all mental. It’s only because of the heroics of the defensemen that the Aces were able to get past even the first round, let alone to the finals.”_

_“But now that the Cup is on the line—”_

_“The Cup has been on the line since game one of the postseason and we haven’t seen that characteristic fire.”_

_“The last Stanley Cup Final he was a part of, Parson put up three goals to win—”_

_“He’s a different player. What matters is this season. Now. Will he rise to the occasion? I don’t know.”_

 

* * *

 

There were always days Jeff felt like Kent was a hundred miles away. Those roadies that he’d close himself off, earbuds blasting music so loud Jeff could sing along if he’d wanted to. If he knew the words. Maybe, if he had learned those songs, Kent would have listened to him. He could whisper his worries wrapped in false poetry and he wouldn’t shut him out. If he had figured out some way through that stubborn fucking skull, Kent wouldn’t be like this.

This week, of all weeks. Because goddamn, Jeff needed him right now.

“Kent,” Jeff says. He taps his stick against the boards. “Kent, pay attention.”

“I _am_ paying attention.”

“Not to the ice, you dick. To me. To the story I’ve been trying to tell for—”

“Do you think Wiley’s arms still look stiff on that pass drill?” Kent says. “Like he’s delaying the—”

Jeff turns his stick to Kent’s shin. He won’t feel much through the padding, but at least it makes him turn.

“The hell?”

“You’re obsessing.”

“We leave for Providence tomorrow, I’m making the most of our practices.”

“No,” Jeff says. “Those guys want to see a captain who’s done this before. Act a little more like it.”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You look like you’re about to throw up on my skates,” Jeff says. He watches the drills, eyes following the puck. “You need to get them energized. Ready for the fucking fight.”

Kent crosses his arms, bulky gloves over padding.

“Wiley, man,” Triggs says from down the bench as Wiley skates back. “Your shoulders gotta be even looser.”

“Fuck you, they’re good.”

“Tell that to Mashkov the next time he steals your puck,” Triggs says.

Dunn and Brownie laugh. Wiley growls. “Fine, let’s go again.”

“Atta boy,” Dunn says.

“You got this, man,” Triggs says as he hoists his legs over the boards to the ice. “Falcs won’t know what hit ‘em.”

The hollers that follow drown out the sigh from Jeff’s side. Kent’s face his frozen in a broken smile, lilting to the right and trembling at the corner from the effort of keeping it up.

 

* * *

 

_“Jack Zimmermann has been having himself quite the season, hasn’t he?”_

_“Just one season after winning the Cup in his rookie year, he’s the leading scorer for the Falconers and raking in the points. Consistently in the top ten for total points and his line is unbeatable.”_

_“Would you have predicted this, Dick?”_

_“We all knew he was good, we saw that last year. Some people thought his announcement at the end of last season would have derailed his focus—”_

_“First out player for the NHL is a big deal.”_

_“—but he’s been as strong as ever. Of course, it’s a big deal, but if anything it’s driven him. It feels like he has purpose out there.”_

_“So what will this matchup come down to?”_

_“The Falconer’s top line is superior, but the Aces have the depth. If Vegas doesn’t give up too many goals early in the game, their endurance may overtake Providence. But if the Falcs get enough of a lead—”_

_“Bye bye Aces.”_

_“Exactly. Now, let’s talk goalies…”_

 

* * *

 

There was a point at which Jack learned to shut out the constant buzzing of media chatter in his ear. He wished it could have been earlier. Back when his life depended on it—five drinks into a six-pack just wishing he was gone enough to pass out and stop the noise. Back then, it was a constant effort to reach for silence. For peace. For relief from the voices in his own head.

He reached and reached until he found out how lonely that silence was.

Jack still can’t do it alone. With Bitty, it’s different. It’s pies and laughter and distraction, and sometimes, brutal honesty.

Bitty shuts off the TV in their living room, silencing the men on the sports network—guys still holding on to the bulk in their arms from their professional days, making the shoulders on their suits fit too tight. Jack wonders how much they’re clinging on to their past selves when they were the stars on the ice all they can do is talk about now.

“Don’t listen to it,” Bitty says.

“But it was actually good this time,” Jack says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bitty says. “You believe one thing you believe it all.”

“I don’t—”

“Hun,” he says. “I know how you work.”

So the silence comes when the TV goes dark, but now there’s someone there to fill it. Plates clattering in the kitchen and the Bitty’s quiet hum of the latest Beyonce release surround him and remind him that he doesn’t need those voices telling him who he is.

“Eat up,” Bitty says, putting an omelet down on the dining table. “You’ve got an important game tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

_“Jeff Troy. In the postseason, he’s put up seven points against the Jets and five in the sweep against the Kings. He’s a powerhouse, but more importantly, he’s precise.”_

_“He knows how to get to the net when it counts.”_

_“If his teammates can get the puck to him.”_

 

* * *

 

Jeff was a middle of the pack draft pick in a season with few stars. He did well in the AHL, enough so to be brought up slowly over a couple years to see how he’d fare in the big leagues where he proved himself a solid player. Nothing spectacular. Nothing tragic. He was dependable.

Until, of course, Kent Parson joined the Aces.

They’d met when Jeff was 22 and tired of being backup, and Kent was 18 and shell-shocked from being first. They were both on unsteady ground, salvaging who they thought they were after the NHL told them the opposite.

Jeff recognized the hollowed out look in Kent’s eyes. The tentative way he talked to his teammates and how he disappeared before any invitation to social events. He saw the careful, almost terrified way he talked to the press and the way he put everything that remained—all the emotions and wishes and personality he’d bottled up—on the ice.

Jeff didn’t ask questions, but in a way, he understood. The expectations. Not knowing if you’d made it yet or if you could ever relax. There was something more there, something he could never touch, but all the same, it made Jeff want to protect the new player. He wished he could grab Kent by the arms and shake him. Tell him the whole world wasn’t his enemy. That at least, he’d be there.

“The fuck?” was what Kent said when Jeff finally told him some variation of that worth and worry.

“Come back to my place,” Jeff said. “I’ve got Mario Kart and a dozen frozen burritos.”

“I don’t—”

“Do you know how boring Mario Kart is alone? Let’s go.”

Since that year, Jeff’s name came up more and more in the press. Good things. Highlight reels. Praises for plays and YouTube videos popping up with _Swoops and Parser shorthanded goal_ or _Jeff Troy game-winner_.

It isn’t what the press says that keeps him afloat, though. It isn't the affection from strangers or the acceptance from a league that was happy to throw him away as soon as they could. It’s late nights with Kent across the couch, skirting close to topics neither of them would mention in the morning. Close enough that they both feel a halfway-catharsis that’ll get them through the next few days, but never close enough that they’ll betray themselves.

It’s a delicate balance, their partnership. Something they’re both afraid of disturbing.

Jeff knows it’ll soon come tumbling down.

It’s 7 pm the night before game one and Jeff follows Kent back to his hotel room from dinner. It’s a mild day outside, warm for Providence but cold for them. It’s comfortable in the jacket and slacks that Jeff usually sweats through in a minute back home.

Kent’s distracted by something on his phone, so Jeff pulls the door open for both of them.

“Look,” Kent says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Look what the cat sitter sent me.”

“Not another video of Kit and that stupid laser—”

“It’s not stupid!”

“—you’d think with how smart you say she is she’d figured out that there’s nothing to chase.”

Kent pouts. “You know, they say only smart animals know how to play,” he says. “Kit is the smartest.”

“She ran into the wall last week when you threw that bell toy of hers—”

“Smart!” Kent says. Sometimes, there was no arguing with Kent Parson.

Jeff laughs and throws his jacket on the bed before slipping off his shoes and turning on the TV. “Whatever you say, man.”

As he flips through the channels—they learn quickly that all local news stations are just like all other local news stations and it just takes a little digging to find the channel with all the reruns of sitcoms they’ve already seen. Jeff knows Kent is fond of ABC family shows, though he’d never admit it, and will turn it on if he can. The sucker watches the loving home lives with two parents and laughing siblings with wide, eager eyes. Jeff doesn’t mention it.

In the corner of the room, Kent is carefully stripping off his pants, leaving him standing in just boxers and a t-shirt. He rubs his knee, angry, indented line running down its length.

“Does it hurt?” Jeff says after they’ve both been quiet for a while. The TV flickers and Kent palms his knee.

“Not exactly,” he says. “It’s weak, like—it’s the turns, man. I know people have been noticing.”

“It’s been barely more than six months, your conditioning—”

“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Kent says.

“It’s not.”

“Don’t know how much longer this body’ll put up with me.” Kent shrugs like it doesn’t mean anything. Like he’s just talking about when it’ll rain next, or if he should grab a turkey or ham sandwich for lunch. “Might as well win this one, huh?”

Something grabs Jeff’s heart and squeezes. He wants to say that he’s better than that, better than what Kent thinks of himself. He doesn’t.

“If you’re an old man, what does that make me?”

“A fucking museum piece,” Kent says. “I’m going to go out and get some ice, need anything?”

Jeff frowns. “For you to put your pants back on?”

Kent looks down. His boxers are plain blue, except for a line of black paw prints across the hip. Fucking typical. “I think I look good.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you when some troupe of girls stops you for a photo in front of the vending machine.”

“You know me. I’m only in trouble if some tall, handsome man asks me to come home with him.”

Inexplicably, the grip around Jeff’s heart squeezes tighter. “Only get laid if it’ll help your game, man.”

“I’m not Wiley. I don’t have shitty superstitions like that.”

“No, you just need to pet Kit five times before you leave for a roadie—”

“Shut up,” he says, grabs the ice bucket, and steps out the door.

There’s no arguing with Kent Parson.

 

* * *

 

**Game 1: LVA @ PVD**

_“What will we see from Vegas captain, Kent Parson?”_

_“Hard to say. We all know he wants it, but will his body be up to the task?”_

 

* * *

 

Kent’s routine had hardly changed from his days in the Q. Skates always on left before right. Three taps of his shin guards before pulling his jersey over his head. Touch the ice sometime during the warm-up before heading back to the locker room.

Keep his head down and don’t pay attention to the other team, spinning in their own circles at the other end of the rink. Focus on his teammates, his stick, his heart.

Sometimes, it isn’t so simple.

“Dude,” Dunn says as they circle around for another go at the goal. “Nylund keeps staring at you.”

Kent turns and just catches the eye of the Falconer. He’s a defenseman—six-foot-something and built like a bear, ready for the kill. Kent rubs his shoulder, phantom pains trickling down his arm.

“Let him.”

“Parser—”

“It’s fine, man. We got this, right?” Kent says. “We got this.”

Nylund turns his back on them as he bends down to stretch, the number 27 bold across his back. Kent shakes out his bad arm, blinking hard.

He feels Jeff’s eyes on his back but forces himself not to turn around. Not to seek comfort like it’s a crutch. A slip of his focus. Not part of his routine.

As he skates off the ice, Kent takes off his glove and runs his fingers across the roughened surface, letting the snow from sharp edges and fast stops accumulate over his skin. He lifts his frosted fingertips to his cheek and presses hard, wanting to feel the cold down to his bones. It leaves wet streaks across his face like he’d been crying.

 

* * *

 

Jack starts across the circle from Kent like he’d done so many times before. Skirmishes in the Q, two years of NHL matchups since. But he hadn’t seen Kent since their last game against each other, nearly three months ago. It had been before the playoffs, before Kent’s injury.

Before he’d seen this strange look on Kent’s face.

There’s a grimace stuck to his lips like it’s painted on. To anybody else, it could be mistaken for concentration. The commentators would call it focus. The fans would call it dedication. Jack knows it on Kent’s face as fear.

He’d seen it back in Juniors, the day after they’d been found by a teammate on top of each other in a hotel room. Jack did what he always did back then and denied everything, a bottle of pills and a handle of vodka to help convince himself of his lies. And Kent? He had stood there, hands empty, and a face just like that. Like the world was about to crumble around him.

“Don’t leave,” Kent had said to him in that room somewhere on the outskirts of Quebec city. “Don’t—don’t leave me here alone.”

Jack hadn’t said a word. He left, the silence trailing behind him.

 

* * *

 

_“Interesting stats talk now. Last year, Zimmermann was able to just overcome Parson’s standing record for number of points in a rookie season.”_

_“Come on, Terry. Zimmermann’s hardly a rookie in the sport.”_

_“You can argue whatever you want. Zimmermann also beat Parson for points overall in that normal season. And this year, it’s no contest. Besides the injuries, we can take a look at their records playing head to head…”_

 

* * *

 

Jack breathes.

The puck drops.

Aces win the faceoff. The refs jump to the side as Troy passes to Dunn and then to Kent, heading straight past the line into Falconer territory.

Jack follows Nylund and Tater to wrap around the goal. The d-man pair is closing in on the rushing Aces line and Jack needs to be ready to take the puck back. He skirts around the crease and bursts into the space between Kent and Snowy, cutting off his path to the net.

Kent passes the puck and turns tight toward the boards, but before he can maneuver his way back to center ice, Nylund is on top of him. The puck bounces back. Jack goes for it. Kent has his stick outstretched. Jack thinks he’s lost the race before, suddenly, Kent pulls back.

Jack whips the puck forward to Tater before risking a glance back. All he can see is Nylund’s broad back and a flash of black jersey against the boards.

He wants to stop. He wants to see, to make sure. But this is the Stanley Cup. He reminds himself of what’s on the line, and yet...

Jack remembers the game before Kent’s injury in March. No, not before. The _cause_ of Kent’s injury. The moment it happened.

They said it was an aggravation of an old problem, and maybe that was true, but those trainers speaking into microphones weren’t on the ice with him. Didn’t hear the crack of a helmet against the glass and the strangled cry of pain as Kent dropped. They weren’t there to see Nylund skate away without a glance back. Didn’t wait and wait for Kent to pop back up like he always did. Like he was supposed to. Didn’t wait for a whistle that never came.

“Hey!” Jack had yelled to the ref. “Hey, we need help over here!”

And finally, there were trainers and coaches out on the ice. People asking him questions, asking if he could move, what hurt. Jack stood outside the circle of Aces players, not wanting to intrude, but not letting himself back off. He wanted to make sure Kent was okay. Despite everything, he needed to make sure.

They took Kent out on a stretcher that day. Concussion, they said, though the rotator cuff injury was what kept him off the ice. He was out for weeks.

And to Jack, the next time play stops after an offside, Kent looks like he’s still there. He looks like he still hasn’t found his footing and that every hit will send him back. That grimace. _That_ is what that is. And Nylund has figured it out.

“What’s that, Parson?” Nylund shouts. “Lost your edge?”

Kent grips his stick and shoulders his way past the D-man.

Jack puts his head down. He can’t think about this. Right now, it has to be him, his teammates, and the puck.

He waits for the drop.

 

* * *

 

**Game 2: LVA @ PVD  PVD: 1 LVA: 0**

_“It has to be a physical game. Playoff hockey means that you have to get in there, block shots and take down those key players.”_

_“Have we been seeing that?”_

_“We usually do with players like Mashkov and Nylund. They can play that checking game, which is effective against the Aces’ speed.”_

_“Is that what hurt Vegas in the game one?”_

_“You saw the way Parson played. I don’t see why they don’t take him off the line, captain or no.”_

 

* * *

 

At the team breakfast the morning after their game one loss, Kent does his best to be the leader the team had put their faith in those years ago. They—the pundits and commentators and fans—had said the Aces were taking a risk with such a young captain. He’d bring the energy, sure, but what about the sturdy experience an expansion team needs? What about the unwavering dedication and knowledge of years in the league?

Kent had asked himself the same questions. Why would these guys with decades over him look at him with anything but disdain?

He soldiered on. He still does. He lets the words slip off him with a quip ready on his tongue.

“Triggs, man, refs were eager to put you in the sin bin, eh?” Dunn says over his half-deconstructed breakfast sandwich. The bagel is torn open, leaking sausage and cheese from the inside.

“Only did it cus they were mad they missed Parser’s dirty hits.”

Kent squeezes his fork between his fingers. “Didn’t ya know? Your pay goes up the higher your stick is,” he says.

“That explains it,” Triggs says. “And what do you do with that hot shot money, huh?”

“All-you-can-eat Chinese buffets.”

“And a new scratch tower for Kit,” Scraps adds.

Kent shrugs. “Not untrue.”     

“Now, what did I hear them say ‘bout you?” Carl says. “Pussy skater? Imagine the cat toys you could afford if you actually got the puck in the goal once in a while, Parser.”

Kent smiles. “Imagine the women you could buy if you actually got some ice time, Carl.”

The boys hoot and cackle. Triggs slaps him across the back with a snort and Kent’s vaguely aware of Jeff getting up across the table and leaving. Kent looks down at his food, mouth full of salt he wants to spit out. He’s not hungry.

“Remember what we’re here for, boys,” Kent says as he stands and clears his plate. “We’ve already put in the work, make sure you make it count. I’ll see you at the rink.”

Scraps gets up and follows him, leaving the chatter of the rest of the team behind them as they wander back through the hotel corridors.

“About what Carl—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Kent says.

Scraps frowns. He knows as much as anyone can about Kent—he’s been in his apartment when those one night stands had wandered bleary and shirtless into the kitchen in the morning and had been the one to pick him up when he was too drunk to drive home from a club at 4 am.

“Swoops says—”

“I don’t give a shit about what Swoops says unless he says it to my face,” Kent snaps. Scraps recoils and Kent immediately regrets it. He wants to take it back, but he isn’t sure how. He doesn’t know how to be both a strong captain and someone who makes his teammates carry his secrets for him. He wishes they’d all just drop them. Forget that those nights, those faceless men, had ever existed in his life.

Is it shame that he should be feeling? For the sex, or for the fact it was with men? Or, is it just called shame because someone had once told that’s what it was. That he deserved it.

All he wants right now is to be a good hockey player. Why doesn’t anyone just let him try?

“You’ve got to let people fucking talk to you,” Scraps says, voice hard. “Or they’ll never listen.”

He’s pointing vaguely behind them, back toward the breakfast room. Kent shakes.

“Do they ever listen?”

“To you,” Scraps says. “They used to.”

 “Get out of my face,” Kent hisses. “Just—get out and focus on your own game.”

 

* * *

 

_“We’re seeing new legends in these games. Just watch and see who’ll go down in the history books and who’ll be forgotten.”_

 

* * *

 

Jeff has a sense for Kent Parson’s mood. It’s a feeling that snakes up his arms and whispers cool wind over his neck. It makes him hurt, sometimes, to know what Kent feels. To take his disappointments home with him, on top of his own. But he shoulders it because it makes them both better.

It’s times like this, though, he wishes he could ignore it. The sharp words and the masks Kent puts up to block everyone else out doesn’t make him any harder to read, it only makes him tenser. More on edge.

Under the lights, it’s worse. The way Kent breathes hard and heavy seems to drown out any other sound, in both his own ears and Jeff’s. It makes him deaf to the screams of the fans banging on the glass behind them and the shouts of their teammates from the bench.

“Kent,” Jeff says. There are ten minutes left in the first period and the Aces are up by one. “Kent, man. That was a risky play.”

“The refs don’t ever call—”

“It isn’t about the refs, man. What the hell are you thinking, taking a suicide pass like that?”

“It’s the finals,” Kent says. Bitterness falls off him in waves, making Jeff’s skin crawl. “The fucking Cup. I’m not worth—”

Jeff growls. “Don’t.”

“I’m not worth more than our chance,” Kent finishes.

“Worth it to who?”

Kent doesn’t respond.

 

* * *

 

Kent plays in a way some people would call dirty and others would call good playoff hockey. All Jack sees his gloves ready to drop and swears thrown across lines. It isn’t him, this desperate clawing toward the finish line. Kent was always precision and focus, like he’d stacked the cards and could predict the next draw, not these thoughtless risks.

Jack doesn’t think Kent is the blood on Thirdy’s lip from a high stick and a two power plays that yields the Falcs nothing.

Or, the tremble in Kent’s left arm they fight for the puck.

Or, the grim, fragile way he celebrates as the light blinks on over the goal.

 

* * *

 

Kent gets one assist in game two. A single assist in a 4-3 game and the Aces just scrape out the win. It should be enough to satisfy him, but all it does is make the fire in his belly hot. He _wants._ More than he can ever have. Than the world can ever give him.

As they circle around at center ice after the horn blares and the clock blinks zero, Kent feels the scrape of pads against pads and the hot air of his teammates breathing as one. He pays the most attention to Jeff’s arms over his shoulders, Jeff’s low baritone laugh, Jeff.

“Well done, boys,” Kent says, trying to keep the tightness out of his voice. “Now let’s show ‘em what we can do on our own turf.”

Kent knows exactly what he can and can’t have. What is still in his grasp, and what is too far away to reach for. So, he shrugs off Jeff’s arm and convinces himself that all that fire and anger he’s kept locked up so long are for that prize they’re all striving for.

He’ll reach for the Cup.

 

* * *

 

Despite Bitty’s wishes, Jack watches some of the post-game interviews. He watches the sweat track lines down Kent’s brow and the dark circles under his eyes grow in the strange locker room lighting. Jack knows what it looks like to push himself, especially this late in the season. He hasn’t deluded himself into of some fantasy version of hard work and pain. But still, why is it that Jack can’t look away? Why does his heart seize up like it did back then, in Montreal, when he didn’t know what would happen next? Like they were both at the edge of a cliff and it was only a matter of time before one of them…

Jack closes his laptop and shuffles to the bedroom. Bitty’s already asleep, tucked deep into the covers.

Maybe the light will be different in Vegas.

 

* * *

 

**Game 3: PVD @ LVA  PVD: 1 LVA: 1**

_“It’s about the communication of those first lines. I didn’t see anything brilliant from either team in game two. The heart may be there, but if you can’t get the puck to the net, it doesn’t matter, does it?”_

_“All those missed opportunities. Messy plays. The pressure is getting to them.”_

_“They’re professionals, Terry. They can do better.”_

 

* * *

 

“You can’t just say—no. No, stop.”

Jack turns the corner in the back corridors between the two locker rooms. He can barely hear the rise and fall of the roaring crowd out in the arena. He thought he was alone, except for some people working the center and one of the Falconer’s equipment managers, but slows as he hears someone’s voice from just outside the home team locker room.

“It’s _nothing_ , Jeff.” Jack recognizes Kent’s voice. “You don’t need to fucking take care of me.”

“The last time—”

“I was fine.”

“You were not,” Jeff Troy says. “I found you when—”

A harsh whisper cuts him off that Jack can’t make out.

“Kent, please. Please, let me help.” The voice is so soft. So full of care that Jack suddenly feels shame wash over him for eavesdropping. He knows he shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be listening to problems that aren’t his, not when he can do nothing about them.

So, Jack retreats to his own locker room, trying to convince himself he’s not a coward for doing so.

  


Back after their first game against the Aces this season, Kent had reached out to him. He’d stopped Jack on their way out, looking sleek in his suit and sunglasses. Jack wanted to run away.

“You want to go out for a drink?” Kent had said. He gestured out into the Vegas heat. “I know a good place.”

“What do you want, Kent?” Jack said.

“Nothing, I just—I wanted to catch up, you know. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Yes.” Jack told himself it was just a reaction. A series of reporter questions had left him with _no comment_ , and _I’ll let my game do the talking,_ and _I’m just like all the other guys_ easy on his tongue. The closeness of Kent’s body made him skittish.

“Zimms, man,” Kent said. He took off his sunglasses and played with the hinge. “I should have reached out earlier. Last season, I mean. What you did, I—”

“You going to tell me it was stupid?” Jack said. “Or that I shouldn’t have?”

“No, nothing like that.” Kent looked backward, back toward the entrance they had just walked out of like he was afraid of who would walk out next. “I just wish—hah, I wish I’d had balls like that.”

Jack frowned. “You think that’s what it’s about? You have no idea.”

Kent opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow pinching. “I don’t?”

“To do it _for_ someone,” Jack said. “Not just for me.”

“I was going to say that I—”

“You’re not going to mess this up for me,” he said.

“What?”

“It’s what you do,” Jack said.

Kent was silent. The tilt of his shoulders collapsed and he retreated back into himself. “So, that’s what you think of me,” Kent said, slowly. He put his sunglasses back on in a smooth motion. “I thought you’d grown up, Zimmermann.”

“And you have?” Jack said.

“You aren’t special,” Kent said. “Just a kid who wants to be praised for existing.”

Nylund appeared beside Jack, then, arms crossed and chin up. “This guy bothering you, Z?”

Jack shook his head. “It’s not like that, Lundy.”

“Isn’t it?” Kent said. “Have fun being fucking special. I don’t envy you.”

“Homophobic bastard,” Nylund shouted after him. Kent left with his middle finger up.

 

* * *

 

Nylund goes hard in game three, but Kent hits back. He bites his tongue as his knee buckles under him and his shoulder screams out in pain. Electricity surges through the nerves to the tips of his fingers and he turns around and uses that energy to whip the puck across the ice. He follows through on his checks, fire burning out his common sense, and just prays he can still stand by the end of the night.

“The fuck was that, Parson?” Nylund yells after the whistle. “You wanna go?”

Kent shoulders past him, earning a shove in return.

“Don’t start, boys,” the ref says.

But he can’t hear it over the roaring in his ears. The constant _more, more, more,_ that beats with his heart and the question he keeps trying to ignore. Why isn’t this good enough? Why isn’t he good enough? He’s trying, he’s killing himself out there and all he can do is fall to his knees.

Kent doesn’t get two more plays in before he’s against the boards again, Nylund breathing down his back. The whistle, offside.

“Don’t touch me,” Kent says.

Nylund grips his collar. “Don’t fuck with Zimmermann.”

“I didn’t do anything to him.”

“Not what I hear,” Nylund says. “You just _try_ to get in his head—”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kent says.

 _Maybe he does,_ the voice in his head answers. It’s loud, so loud. It’s all he can hear. _Maybe it’s just that you could never be as good as Zimms. You’ll spend your whole life playing back up to the kid who had everything._

 

* * *

 

Jeff knows he can’t protect Kent. Not on the ice or off. He can’t stop the fans who spit at him for daring to miss a month because his body has finally started to fail. He can’t stop the commentators from tearing him apart as soon as he returns— _he’s not ready, he’s not ready, he’s not ready._ He can’t stop Kent’s own demons, running around in his skull.

Kent says he doesn’t listen, but of course, he does. Jeff sees when he goes quiet, light fingers tapping on the bench, water bottle raised to his lips for a minute without him drinking a drop.

He sees it at night, when it’s just the two of them in Kent’s apartment, religiously tuned to the next episode of Westworld, or Game of Thrones, or whichever show it is this month.

A few months ago, when they were on a Netflix binge of Stranger Things, Kent had gone to the kitchen, asking Jeff if he’d like another beer, and never returned.

Jeff found him fifteen minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the unopened bottle.

“You alright?”

Kent startled. “Fine, yeah. Sorry, let’s go watch.”

His eyes were glassy, his grip tight around the sweating glass. “It can wait,” Jeff said. “We need to talk about this.”

“Nothing to talk about.”

Jeff pulled up a chair. “To me?” he asked, “Or are you also not talking to your guy?”

“Yeah, he’s—I’m still going to him.”

“And the pills?”

“Jesus, Jeff,” Kent said. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Sometimes I think you do.”

Kent went silent, chewing his bottom lip. In this light, Kent’s eyes looked gray. Gray and deep and sad. He was wearing a shirt Jeff recognized as his, probably one he dumped on the floor one of the many times he’d slept in the guest room. Blue striped and V-necked, it suited Kent better than him. He’d let him keep it.

“Do you ever wish—” Kent started, unsure. “Fuck, I don’t understand how it was so easy for him.”

“For who?”

Kent looked at him like he was slow. “Forget it.”

“No, tell me. What do you mean?”

“It’s just that—that whatever this—” he motions between them, then drops his hand. “Fuck, I wish it was different. Easier.”

“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Jeff said.

“It isn’t you,” Kent said. “Or, what I mean—it’s that I can’t be perfect. I can’t do what they want me to do and I can’t be a fuck up either. Not with the team depending on—no. No, it’s nothing. It’s me.”

“Kent,” Jeff said. “I’m worried about you.”

“I know,” he said and stood, a delicate smile briefly crossing his face. “I know.”

But he didn’t. Not then, not now. Not as Jeff watches Kent skate back to the bench with blood dripping from his nose from a pair of fists now in the penalty box. Not as Kent’s breath catches as they announce the last goal.

_“Number one of the Falconers, Jack Zimmermann…”_

He can’t do anything when he lands on his bad knee and takes twice as long as he should to get up. _Please, not again,_ Jeff thinks. _Please stand up. Stand up._

Third period, the Aces are down 5-3. There’s a pileup at the Falconer’s goal for the puck.

_Please stand up._

Kent wobbles to his feet and faces Nylund, chest out, snarl on his lips.

_Skate away._

Puck drop and Jeff knows what’s going to happen a moment before it does. Nylund gets possession and makes it three feet before he’s cross-checked into the boards.

_Kent, that fucking idiot._

 

* * *

 

_“Las Vegas Aces captain, Kent Parson suspended for one game for cross-checking Providence Falconers defensemen, Joe Nylund during game 3 of the Stanley Cup Finals.”_

 

* * *

 

“Why did you do that?” Jeff yells. “How could you be so—”

“Reckless?” Kent says. “Stupid? What, Jeff, what?”

“Selfish,” Jeff says. “How could you be so fucking selfish?”

“That was Nylund, man. That was all his damn—”

“Don’t blame it on _him._ It’s you,” Jeff says.

“It’s the finals. This is what we do.”

“No. You’re trying to be some martyr, self-sacrificing—what do you want? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

Kent grimaces and turns away. “I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me, Kent. I’ve gotten pretty fucking good at seeing through your bullshit.”

“Then I don’t have to tell you, do I?” Kent says. “You know exactly why—”

“Kent—” Jeff reaches for his arm.

“You know why!” Kent shouts. His eyes are glassy, a film of water threatening to spill. “And I’m not good enough to say it. To ever fucking say it. Even if we win. Even if I kill myself out there, they will always compare me to _him!_ To fucking Zimmermann. But for once, it isn’t about him. It’s about _me._ And—me and—”

Kent ducks his head. Jeff wants him to finish his sentence, wants it more than anything, but he can’t make him. He doesn’t know what it’ll do to his own heart.

“You can’t listen to what they say,” Jeff says.

“But we do,” Kent says, quieter. “That’s always been our problem.”

“They’re wrong.”

“Are they?” Kent says. “Maybe it’s true. Maybe you are all just better without me.”

“Don’t say that,” Jeff says. “Don’t scare me like that. I told you—”

“But you have nothing else to say to me, do you?” Kent says.

Jeff tries to find the words. Tries so hard to say the right thing, but nothing comes out.

“That’s what I thought,” Kent says and walks away.

 

* * *

 

Jack is leaving the venue and sees the straight-backed stroll of Kent in his suit, hair wet and slicked back. They’re both taking the back way out, through the service doors and away from both fans and other players.

“Parse,” Jack says, trying to catch up to him.

Kent says nothing, frown pulling the corners of his mouth.

“Parse, I—” Jack doesn’t know what he wanted to say. “How are you doing?”

Kent scoffs. “Are you serious right now?” he says. “You’re asking me—fuck you, Jack Zimmermann.”

Kent turns on his heel and disappears through the loading dock.

 

* * *

 

**Game 4: PVD @ LVA  PVD: 2 LVA: 1**

_“Parson met with player safety and will be watching from the sidelines today. Do you think that was the correct decision, Dick?”_

_“It was a dirty hit, they needed to call it. Blatant retaliation—”_

_“But considering how rough play was during the last game, I’m surprised it was the only hit they called.”_

_“So, the Aces will have to organize their first line. Have they announced who they’re bringing up?”_

_“Does it matter? The way Parson has been playing, it may improve the Aces scoring chances.”_

_“But what about their morale?”_

 

* * *

 

Kent Parson never believed he was poster boy material. When the commercial offers started coming and he became captain, it never sank in. He’d see himself on TV and on merch, and it wouldn’t make sense. He is a mess. Lost. Confused.

He puts everything of himself into his skating because it’s all he knows how to do.

But now, they’re catching up, aren’t they? They’ve found him out and they’re tearing him apart.

 

* * *

 

“I never thought about what it would be like for Parse,” Jack says to Bitty.

“Coming out?” Bitty says. “Or staying closeted?”

“Having to listen to all of this.”

Bitty shakes his head. “I told you to stop watching Sports Central—”

“I think he’s in love with his teammate,” Jack says.

Bitty blinks. Sits down. Takes a breath. “Seriously?”

“I can’t say I’m good at being able to tell—”

“Oh, hun.”

“—but it feels like—” Jack pauses, unsure of the right words. “Like it did a long time ago? Sorry, I don’t know if you’d want to hear about it.”

“We’ve already talked about it, Jack, don’t worry.”

 

* * *

 

Kent thinks about what he wanted to say to Jack, those months ago. What he’d been meaning to say as soon as he first watched that video after the Stanley Cup last year.

He wrote texts and deleted them. _I’m proud of you._

He tried to pick up the phone and say _the truth is a scary thing. Love is a scary thing. And yet, you went out there and did it. And here I am, still alone and weak and scared._

When Kent reached out to Jack at that game in Vegas, he wanted to ask what he could do to be more like him. _But I can’t be like you._

It seemed, then, that the best thing for him to do was to give up. To tell himself, over and over, that he was doing everything wrong. For the wrong reasons, in the wrong way. He’s getting in the way of other’s happiness—Jack said so, didn’t he? He’s fucking up the Aces’ chances for the Cup, he’s messing up Jack’s perfect romance, he’s making Jeff worry…

Jeff. He’s so sorry.

_What could I have ever done? I couldn’t even fuck myself up right, back then._

Might as well do it now.

 

* * *

 

“Are you worried about him?” Bitty asks Jack.

“Parse?” Jack says. “I never stopped being worried about him.”

 

* * *

 

_“It’s been quite a series so far, hasn’t it?”_

_“Physical, high scoring games that have made tensions run high.”_

_“Weaver will be replacing Parson in the lineup. Defense wise…”_

 

* * *

 

 _Where are you?_ Jeff texts. His fingers press hard against the glass, even if it doesn’t do more than make his thumbs slip clumsily over the keyboard. He’s angry. He has a _right_ to be angry. _Your team needs you._

 _I need you_ he doesn’t send, even though his fingers itch to.

In the weeks at the start of the season that Kent had been recovering from surgery, Jeff had felt strangely off-kilter. It was as if his skates were untied and one blade was a couple inches too short. Like when he stepped off onto the ice, he would skid just a little before finding his balance. He’d search for Kent’s tape, listen for his typical call, and find nothing. He’d pass into empty space and trip over himself, surprised that nobody was there to receive the puck.

Kent was never a simple person, but it was the simplest thing in the world for Jeff to reach for him—seek his laugh and steady hand on his shoulder.

Now, Kent should be here, in a suit and tie rather than his gear, but still present. Watching, scowling at the other team, finding ways to comfort Jeff even if he can’t be on the ice. But he isn’t. For some reason, he’s hiding. Not making himself known to the cameras or the coaches, or even to Jeff.

Dunn gives a speech in the locker room. _Fight on,_ and _we’ve come so far,_ and _have each other’s backs_ , yada yada that Jeff can’t give his whole attention to. It feels wrong to be here without Kent. Like despite all the years he’s put into this team, he’s an outsider again—someone brought up from the AHL for a game just to be thrown back and forgotten.

He doesn’t want to be forgotten. He doesn’t want Kent to be forgotten.

He can’t get his heart to stay still.

 

* * *

 

_“Dunn passes to Wiley and wristshot—oh! What a save! Game still tied at 1-1 in the second period.”_

 

* * *

 

Jeff looks to his right. Finds the perfect corridor where Kent would be waiting. But Weaver is slower than Kent. Doesn’t know his signals like Kent. Doesn’t have reflexes like Kent.

The puck goes sailing past him and into Falconer possession.

 

* * *

 

_“Troy and Dunn rush the net, but they’re denied before they have a chance to shoot.”_

 

* * *

 

Sweat drips down Jeff’s neck and his eyes search the stands instead of the rink.

 

* * *

 

_“And there’s the end of the third! Falconers win, 3-1. Now they’re only one win away from taking the series and the Cup.”_

 

* * *

 

“Hey! Troy, wait up.”

Jeff hesitates, ready to ignore the voice and keep walking. He’s drained and restless and just wants to get home. Sleep and sleep and hope the next game will be better. But he stops because he recognizes the voice and knows it won’t go away easily.

He turns and finds Jack Zimmermann there, slightly out of breath.

“What?”

“I wanted to—uh—where’s Parse?” he says.

“Why do you care?” Jeff says.

He finds it strange, staring at Zimmermann with them both not geared up in pads and jerseys. He feels naked in street clothes. Exposed. This isn’t the player he meets on the ice, but the man that once hurt Kent. The one-time-boy that still haunts Kent’s nightmares.

And yes, Jeff knows. Not all of it, he’s sure, but the parts that poured out of Kent’s lips those early years when they stayed up late watching city lights pass under hotel windows. Different lights, different windows, same dreams that would keep Kent up. Same insecurities he’d never let go.

“It was just that—I,” Zimmermann pauses, scratches behind his ear and looks away. “I haven’t been fair to him, I don’t think. I wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize,” Jeff repeats. “Really? Now? You haven’t won the Cup yet, man.”

“It’s not about that,” he says. “It’s about—”

Zimmermann stops. He holds his tongue like he’s about to spill secrets and looks at Jeff with a wary gaze.

Fuck this.

“About _what_ Zimmermann? About you two? Because I can tell you that conversation is about ten years too late,” Jeff says. “Or do you think he doesn’t have guys on his side? Guys who care about him?”

“I do, but—”

“You’re not the first queer guy in the NHL. You’re just the first who thinks you can speak for all…” _Of them?_

_Of us?_

_Fuck._

Zimmermann scowls at that and his voice dips lower when he answers. “I don’t.”

“You—”

“You don’t know where he is, do you?” Zimmermann says. He steps forward, looking at him like he’s a painting in a gallery to be examined. “You’re worried.”

“Fuck off.”

“He’ll be alright.”

Jeff looks away. “You can’t know that.”

“Jack, hun?” A voice calls as a small man rounds the corner, Falconers jersey hanging loosely off his shoulders. He hangs his hand over Zimmermann’s arm. “Where’ve you been?”

Zimmermann sighs like he’s been holding his breath and leans into the other man’s touch. “Sorry, Bitty. I’ve been talking to Troy.”

Bitty finds Jeff’s gaze and his whole face softens. He smiles and the whole world feels a little brighter, somehow. Jeff can see how Zimmermann’s anxious tics calm next to him. How he melts in his presence and it feels familiar, that look. That feeling.

Like a long-ignored itch at the back of his skull. Jeff tries to push it away.

“Jeff Troy?” Bitty says. He holds out his hand and Jeff takes it on impulse. They shake hands and Jeff thinks that it’s a little absurd, this greeting, but there’s nothing he can do about it. This strange ray of sunshine is beaming at him, not letting go of his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Jeff says, unsure.

Bitty nudges Zimmermann in the side. “I think we’ve got to go, hun.”

He nods and looks toward Jeff once more. “You go, I’ll catch up in a minute.”

Bitty pats his shoulder and disappears from where he came. Jeff watches him go.

“It took me too long to figure it out,” Zimmermann says. “What I felt for Bitty, I mean. I was too caught up in who I was supposed to be.”

Jeff doesn’t need to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear the confessions of the ghost Kent carries with him because no matter what Zimmermann thinks he means, whatever good intentions he thinks he has, it will never be enough. But, somehow, Jeff is rooted to the spot. He listens and something in his chest lurches.

“I ignored it because I was afraid of what it would mean,” Zimmermann said. “I know I’m not the only queer guy in the NHL. Just don’t tell me I don’t know what it means for the spotlight to be on me. The only thing I’ve done is decide that Bitty’s worth all the things they say about me.”

Jeff knows there’s a right response to this, but he can’t find it. His lips are numb and his tongue fumbles. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say to me.”

Zimmermann cocks his head to the side and there’s a hint of the man who just left in the quirk of his lips. “Really?”

After a silence, Zimmermann walks away, his steps sending echoes across the cement floor. Jeff stands there for three beats before he walks in the opposite direction and pulls out his phone.

 

* * *

 

Kent’s phone rings again. _Jeff Troy._

He silences it, again.

He puts his head in his hands and tries to tune out the chatter of a family behind him, future plans and scolding voices. A few tables down, a group of high school-aged kids bend over their sundaes to whisper gossip in each other’s ears. The waitress hovers by his table again, eyeing his nearly empty plate. He pushes the eggs around, still hungry but not wanting to leave just yet. Not wanting to face the outside.

These 24-hour diners are like a different dimension, somehow the same in every state he goes to. Even the same up in Montreal, where he and Jack used to disappear after games when the others would try to sneak into bars before they turned 18. It could be the liminal space between this world and the world where they could be who they wanted to be. Perpetual morning, when the sun would rise and everything would look a little better in the new light. They could eat as much as their hockey-battered bodies demanded and laugh at the requests they’d throw at the confused wait staff.

“Sausage or Bacon?”

He and Jack would turn to each other, smirk, and say, “Yes, please. And does the side of potatoes come with bacon on top as well?”

Kent tells himself it isn’t cowardly, running as far away from the rink as he can. He simply can’t deal with the noise. Maybe that makes him weak, unworthy of his C, but it’s better than going back there and falling apart all over again.

And this midnight diner, stuck between past and present, would suspend him in time for just a moment. He just needs long enough for the dangerous feeling in his chest to subside so he can go home and not be afraid he’ll do something he can’t take back—with a phone, with a knife, with a bottle of pills sitting in his bathroom.

Kent watches the yellow yolk ooze across the leftover crust of his pumpernickel toast.

Someone sits down heavily on the booth seat across from him. Kent doesn’t look up. His phone is ringing again and he ignores them both.

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

Kent looks up and Jack’s sitting there like he’d never left his dreams. Like each one of those diners they’d laid out behind them was connected and he’d just stepped from one memory to this present day, fresh and eager. Except, this Jack has a beard a younger version of him could never grow. This Jack holds himself taller, and it isn’t just the muscle added across his shoulders.

He’s flickering between timelines and Kent can’t figure out if he wants to punch Jack, or kiss him. He opts for somewhere in between.

“How did you find me?” Kent says.

“I’ve visited your place once,” Jack says. “A while ago, don’t you remember? I just looked for a place like this close by.”

Kent remembers the blur of a drunken call when Jack had been looking into teams to sign with. He remembered a party he hadn’t wanted to host and the shock that he’d shown up at all. Kent’s face burns red with the memory. It wasn’t a good time for him.

“You haven’t changed much,” Jack says. He glances around at the décor.  

“This isn’t my first choice,” Kent says. “But the joint down the street doesn’t have Canadian sausage and the bartender likes to gossip.”

Jack crosses his arms. “You weren’t at the game.”

Kent drops his fork down onto the plate with a clatter. “Congrats on the win,” he says. “Why are you here?”

“I ran into Troy.”

“Swoops,” Kent says, trying to sound detached. Far away. As if he could. “And?”

“Parse—”

Kent’s phone rings again. The sound cuts between them and he wish he’d turned it off hours ago.

“He cares about you,” Jack says. Of all the things Kent imagined Jack cornering him to talk about, it was never this. “You should answer.”

“You should shut the fuck up.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen before. I’m sorry I shut you out,” Jack says. “I can say all that, I can, but I don’t think that’s what you need to hear.”

Kent scowls. “Focus on your own game, Zimms. What are you doing talking to me now? Or is this all part of the plan? Confuse me—”

“Come on, Parse.”

“No, really,” Kent says. “Why are you here?”

Jack opens his mouth, but instead of rehearsed nonsense Kent expects to spill out, he sighs. Retreats into his chair and looks at Kent with sad eyes. Sad, sleepy eyes that he’d once used to urge him closer across a bed. That made Kent fall in love with him, a long time ago.

“You deserve to be happy, Parse,” Jack says. “I know how you get when you think your happiness is a prize for doing something well. It’s not. You can want it and not be a bad person.”

“That’s what you tell yourself, huh?” Kent says though he’s surprised. “Are you really the one to be giving me advice?” Since he’d tried to reach out those months ago, he thought of Jack as a machine—saying what he was supposed to for the cameras and doing what he had to for the fans. This—this was different. Hesitant and raw.

“It doesn’t have to be public. Really, _I_ didn’t have to make it public.” A waitress brings a glass of water for Jack and he sips from it slowly. “It happened, though. And I can’t get myself to regret it.”

“It isn’t that easy,” Kent says. It isn’t as easy as Jack can make it look, when he’s on top of the world and can do no wrong.

“No, it isn’t,” Jack says. He twists, looks across the room. “Do they have chicken and waffles here?”

Kent snorts. “That’s new.”

“Southern boyfriend.” He waves down a waitress.

Kent picks up his fork and scratches it across his plate.

“Don’t let yourself be another critic,” Jack says. “There’s enough against us, so don’t listen to what everyone else says, because it’ll only make it worse.”

“What they’re saying is true.”

“What they’re saying is cruel,” Jack says. “How would Bitty put it? All hat and no cattle.”

“Sure,” Kent says slowly.

“It’s more comforting when he says it.”

Kent looks at Jack again, really looks at him, and notices the marks that time left on him that aren’t as simple as a playoff beard. His hands are still, not fiddling with the napkin or spoon like he would have when they were teens, and his eyes are sharp, not dulled by alcohol downed over the course of the night. He’s tilted his head to the side like he’s listening to the silence, waiting for Kent to speak. Waiting to listen.

“You’ve done this before,” Jack says when Kent says nothing. “What makes this different?”

Kent remembers feeling like he was on fire and if he stopped, even took one glance behind him, his flame would go out. He remembered not sleeping for days and feeling on top of the world, but the crash afterword was almost too much to bear. He’d considered throwing his pills down the toilet this run and hope that the high would catch him again, but he couldn’t do that to himself. To his team.

“I want to be better than I was,” Kent says. It’s a half-truth, but if anyone could understand it would be Jack. “The problem is nobody thinks I am.”

“What they’re saying is what they _want_ to be true,” Jack says. “What do you want?”

Kent wants to touch the Cup again. He wants to know that he made it, remind himself that he deserves it and that maybe people will love him, and—

And he wants Jeff to tell him, keep telling him, over and over that he doesn’t need the Cup for that at all.

“Do you know what I want?” Jack says when Kent doesn’t respond. “A fair series. This—the finals, you and me—we’ve talked about this since, when? I don’t want it to go to waste. When I win, I want it to be against your best.”

“When _you_ win?” Kent says.

Jack smirks, shrugs, and digs into his meal. “What are you going to do about it?”

The next time his phone goes off, Kent picks up.

 

* * *

 

**Game 5: LVA @ PVD  PVD: 3 LVA: 1**

_“Chad, what do the Aces need to do to salvage this run?”_

_“Focus. It’s all about focus and we haven’t been seeing it. If they can find that spark again and follow through with it, they’ve still got a chance.”_

_“Ha, well, tell that to the home crowd. Listen to that sound.”_

 

* * *

 

Jeff skates onto the ice with Kent beside him, as if nothing is wrong. Neither of them mentions the last few games—the fights, the anger, the way Kent had disappeared. They also don’t talk about how Kent had shown up at Jeff’s house the next morning, smelling of old coffee, and slumped down onto his couch like he wasn’t the cause of another of Jeff’s sleepless nights. Jeff didn’t tell him how close he was to calling the cops before he’d heard him pick up and say, _I’m fine._

Jeff didn’t ask questions because that’s what he was for. It’s what Kent needs, someone to not ask questions. Jeff’s afraid that if he starts, it’ll scare Kent away. He’s seen Scraps try. He wants to, though. He wants to dig out whatever is stirring inside him as well and throw it out into the open. Ask, _what is this, Kent? What are you doing to me?_

They warm up. Jeff doesn’t look at the Falconer’s side and simply hopes Nylund isn’t looking back here, because he doesn’t have the capacity to save them all if something happens again. But strangely, Kent looks calm. He even looks rested, despite everything.

Kent puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “we got this,” and this time, Jeff believes it.

And Kent is beautiful.

First period, he lights up the goal with a powerful slap shot that slides through the Falconer d-men. The net moves, the horns blare, and Kent skates half the rink in his celly.

Second period, Jeff lands a perfect pass across the ice to Kent’s tape because he’s _there_ and Jeff knew he’d be, and the puck is deflected straight into the goal. Kent meets Jeff’s eye and skates straight to him, almost knocking him over with the weight of his embrace.

Third period, Jeff distracts as Kent breaks away, and all Jeff can think as he watches the grace with which Kent skates past each opponent is that he’s like some sort of god. Too bright to look at, untouchable, and yet…

The feeling bubbles up in his gut. Jeff tries to push it back as the puck goes in and Kent turns and smiles, but it’s already there. Between his teeth, on his tongue.

 _Oh fuck,_ Jeff thinks. _I’m in love with him._

The hats rain down and Jeff doesn’t know what to do.

 

* * *

 

**Game 6: PVD @ LVA  PVD: 3 LVA: 2**

_“With his first career playoff hat trick, Parson is able to lead the Aces to their second win of the series. The next faceoff will be back in Las Vegas.”_

 

* * *

 

After game five, Kent lets himself celebrate, just for a moment. He breathes in the light and the sound before he knows he’ll have to land back down on earth.

He tries to find Jeff on the bus ride to the airport, but he’s gone and hid somewhere in the back rows and Kent doesn’t have a chance to grab him. He tries again when they board the plane, but Jeff shoulders him away with some vague excuse.

The whole ride, Kent stares out the window and tells himself that he deserves the cold shoulder, after disappearing like he did. The phone calls, the texts, Jeff’s voice desperate on the line trying so hard not to ask him where he’d been. Kent just wishes he’d _talk_ to him instead of ignoring him like this.

They were good, the last game, he’d thought. They worked like there was magic between them again and nothing could go wrong.

At least for those 60 minutes.

Kent would prefer yelling over the way Jeff slips through his fingers when they land in Vegas. It’s Jeff’s turn to ignore his texts and calls and Kent is left sitting on his couch, alone except for Kit brushing her cheek across his knee.

The next morning is much of the same. A practice to get back their focus, and though Kent is making his passes, his true focus is caught somewhere in the folds of Jeff’s jersey.

“I fucked up, I know—” Kent says as they rest by the boards.

“Not now.”

“Then when?” Kent says. “I don’t want to take—whatever this is—to the next game—”

“So, don’t,” Jeff says. His eyes linger a moment too long and Kent feels as if he’s naked—stripped bare and only Jeff can see. Kent bites his tongue. “You’re good at that aren’t you? Just don’t think about it.”

Kent wishes he could listen. But fear is a demon he knows he can’t fight alone. The talk shows and radio hot takes will reach him and pull him under and he won’t let himself drown again.

Kent follows Jeff to a back corner of the locker room when most everyone else has left.

“Tell me,” Kent begs. “Tell what I can do.”

Jeff stares at him, his shoulders inching in on himself so he looks smaller than he is. Though Kent is a good four inches shorter, in that moment they’re eye to eye.

“Sometimes, I think I hate you,” Jeff says.

Kent looks away. “You—”

“I _want_ to hate you, but I can’t,” Jeff finishes. “No matter how many times you—you get hurt, or you ask me to come over at two in the fucking morning and need someone to talk you down I’ll—”

“I’m _sorry,”_ Kent says.

“I’ll still fucking be there,” Jeff says. “It’s too much, but you—”

Jeff takes a cautious step closer to him, fist out like he can’t decide if he wants to hurt or comfort. His hand just hovers close to Kent’s chest. Kent wants to pull him in. He wants to feel Jeff’s fingers on him, even if they’re angry.

But he doesn’t. After a moment, Jeff makes a frustrated noise and turns on his heel, leaving Kent alone, listening to the locker room door slam shut.

 

* * *

 

_“The last game could be a fluke.”_

_“Or, we could be seeing the old Kent Parson.”_

_“I don’t know, Terry. The new Kent Parson, I’d say. Those skills have developed since the 2012 finals.”_

_“Fluke or no, we’ll see how it pans out today. Falconers are still only one game away from winning it all.”_

 

* * *

 

Kent is on autopilot. There are no thoughts in his head, good or bad.

 

* * *

 

_“The Aces defense are crowding out the attack and… Oh! What a pass to Zimmermann! He takes it to the goal and… just deflected. Score still 0-0”_

 

* * *

 

Is this what focus is? Just him and the puck and teammates who are numbers more than faces. He lets his training flow through his tired muscles.

 

* * *

 

_“The Aces are always strong on their special teams. With one minute left on the clock for this power play, they pass from Dunn to Parson, back to Dunn and… goal!”_

 

* * *

 

Kent doesn’t speak between periods. The other guys look at him and how his eyes are focused straight ahead and they know. It’s better this way. It’s the best pep talk he can give them.

 

* * *

 

_“Parson in control of the puck as he makes his way around the back. Looking for a teammate to pass to. Oh! Oh what a hit. Falconer’s possession now.”_

 

* * *

 

Kent can get up, again and again. He’s done it before. He can brush off each check and find his way back to his feet.

 

* * *

 

_“Aces win 1-0. This series will go on to game seven.”_

 

* * *

 

There’s a knock on Kent’s door, but he’s reluctant to answer. It’s late, which means it can only be Jeff or Scraps, so if Jeff’s been avoiding him and all Scraps ever wants is food, he’d rather sit on his couch and pretend he hasn’t heard anything.

The TV flickers with some cooking show he’s only been paying half his attention to. His whole body is sore and he’s icing his knee.

The knock comes again. Kit mews at the entrance.

Kent sighs and stands and pulls open the door.

“What the fuck do you—” Kent says, but stops. It’s Jeff, standing there with his eyes to the floor and his hand behind his neck. Kent frowns.

“I can’t hate you,” Jeff says. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me.”

Jeff steps quickly through the threshold to kiss him. Hard. It tastes like every truth he kept under his tongue, sweetened with time. It feels like release.

Kent is stunned for a moment and Jeff backs away. “Sorry, shit. I’ll—”

Kent catches his arm before he can escape.

“Fuck you,” Kent says and kisses him back.

There’s nothing like the feeling of getting lost in another person. He wants to stay suspended there, forever, floating on this high. He shuts the door with his foot and walks Jeff backward against a wall, finding he already knows the contours of Jeff’s body. The way his arms move and press against him and the way his strong thighs brace themselves against their shared body weight. He knows Jeff so well, but never saw this in him. Kent never dreamed he could have this part of him and he never wants to let it go.

The hands that roam up his shirt and around the small of his back are the same that held the letters from Kent’s father as Jeff told him he didn’t need to feel like a bad person for deciding to never respond.

The legs that wrapped around his as they landed backward on the couch were the same that walked with him to his first psychiatrist appointment before Kent could admit that anything was wrong.

The tongue he could taste for the first time had held his secrets for years without complaint and told him he shouldn’t be ashamed for needing to hide some parts of himself.

“I love you,” Kent says and it sounds like a confession. It spills out of his mouth before he can take it back, but he can’t get himself to want to. It’s true and it’s not for anyone else to hear but Jeff. The media, the coaches, the fans—they all don’t matter right now. Here, it’s Jeff’s breath coming out in short huffs that tickle Kent’s nose and he knows Jeff could hate him for so many things, but not this.

Jeff won’t hate him for this.

And he won’t hate himself for it either.

 

* * *

 

**Game 7: LVA @ PVD  PVD: 3 LVA: 3**

_“Folks, this is it! We’ll crown a champion by the end of the night.”_

_“And what a ride it’s been.”_

_“Terry, can you comment on what we saw in the pregame skate?”_

_“I think we have a video of the exchange. If you see there, it looks like Parson and Zimmermann have a few words at center ice.”_

_“They don’t look like angry words.”_

_“A different sort of intimidation? Or just friendly banter?”_

_“Can’t say. We’ll see how it plays out in the game.”_

 

* * *

 

“Hey Parse,” Jack says as the ref skates over. “Let’s make it a good one.”

Kent finds Jack’s eyes and smirks. He knows Jeff is behind him. He doesn’t have to look to feel him there, he’s been a part of his consciousness for so long. Instead, he focuses on ice in front of him, the roar of the crowd.  

“You’re going down.”

The puck drops.


End file.
